Apr. 7th, 2011

persephone20: (a tree)
I've just started reading Dracula and Bronte's Villette for the next couple of weeks of Victorian and Gothic literature classes. Before that, I believe there was The Lifted Veil and half a dozen short stories by Poe. All of these are written in first person narrative. Most of these have a completely ho-hum normal beginning before everything gets uncanny or at least, in the case of Villette, before the romantic interest makes an appearance.

I'd been wanting to write something to begin this journal as a creative outlet and these books I've been reading have ended up shaping the form of it.

This will likely be pretty rough. It is not the usual tone I use for my writing.

April 7th
I haven't thought of this story for many years. For a long time, I remember going to therapy. It turned out I wasn't much good at therapy. Seems I wouldn't 'apply myself' to getting to the bottom of repressed memories. That's that the round man in the tweed suit with suede elbows commonly told me. I can tell you exactly how much that showed how much he was listening to his patient.

For me, there were no repressed memories. There were, in fact, no memories there to be repressed. I told him exactly what I remembered -- that I had been brought back into the world I knew by my friend (no, I couldn't say which friend, she isn't exactly the kind you could contact), I knew we were running, and that we were relieved when we got me back here. She couldn't stay though, but she'd never be far -- but apparently this story left too many gaps in the narrative that I should clearly be able to fill in. I'm sorry, I had not realised that this was a writing your life class. I thought I had come in for a therapy session.

I stopped going to the therapist in the tweed suit with suede elbows very soon after it became clear that he could not help me. And he was overcharging.

I rented a flat near the city after that. For some reason, the idea of nameless, faceless people, but a lot of them, all around me, all the time, made me feel safe. The flat was one bedroom in a loft over the small kitchen / living room area, and when I went to sleep up there, I felt like I was on top of the world. No one could touch me here. My living room was barely ever used. I would eat my breakfast of toast and coffee in front of my computer that was set on a desk next to my bed and, after getting dressed, I would take the bus to work.

My work was never a terribly interesting place of occupation, but it was money. The boss did not treat his staff terribly, and it was not so far from home.

Of an evening, I would walk through the park near my house. Sometimes, when I had a book with me, I would sit and read underneath one of the oaks until the last of the light to read by faded, and I would walk the rest of the two blocks that would take me home.

Why do I tell you all of this? It is not to bore you, merely to show you how ordinary my life was. You see, the memories that my ex-therapist had been so concerned with came back. Oh, they hadn't been repressed, I knew that for sure the minute they were returned to me.


persephone20: (Default)

March 2013


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